


Earworm

by Radioluminescence



Category: Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stalking, it's like that boombox scene from say anything but a bit creepier because it’s soundwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence
Summary: On the other side of the border, he hears a song that follows him home.
Relationships: Hot Rod/Soundwave
Comments: 13
Kudos: 139





	Earworm

**Author's Note:**

> This got a bit...poetic. All feelings are requited--the main conflict comes from allegiances--though Soundwave's method of pursuit can be seen as stalker-ish so I'm putting the tag up just to be safe.
> 
> I wrote this story to procrastinate on writing another story and then procrastinated on this story by making a short [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2tPD2CYu3yJpS75wGFnf5X?si=prEy_6-ZRBe5IJjboZWrIA) playlist that’s a bit too light for this fic. Needless to say, I have a problem.

Hot Rod’s left alone on the border patrol once.

He’d been deployed with an Autobot soldier that stood in for Chromia, who was scheduled for repairs that day. The mech is in high spirits and is good enough company, though Hot Rod never does learn his name (he knows it’s been said more than once, but his mind was always on other things).

He hates the routine drive-bys, but he supposes it’s better than being on one of the repair teams that are tasked with restoring the city to its former glory. At least here he can spin his wheels and call it an exploration. There’s not much to see, but the incision in the ground that’s divided Cybertron more than the war ever did is definitely something to ogle at. More than the polonium structures, at least.

That day, they’re a mile or so out when his partner sustains an injury. It’s a puncture to his back wheel that’s not serious enough to become a medical emergency but makes travel inadvisable. The soldier transforms out of his alt-mode, bowing on one knee. With one finger, he tests the tire’s air pressure, then shakes his head.

“Go on without me then,” he says. “It’s not that far.”

‘It’ being the crest where the border pinches inward and their territory ends. The only thing they have to do on patrol is travel up the one strip and confirm there’s been no movement across the border. It’s only a few kilometres out and shouldn’t take him longer than a few minutes.

It’s against protocol to travel without backup, but he makes up for it by preparing his emergency beacon and onlining his comms. In the event of a fight, which is truly unlikely, help will be there. Besides, the wounds of the Quintessons are fresh. It would be suicidal for someone to pick a fight with him now.

His partner holes up in an abandoned structure and waits for his return so he can hitch a ride on his alt-mode. Hot Rod hits the gas and sprints. A wide expanse of nothing opens up before him. He’s never been to this stretch before, certainly not alone. Although he’s mapped the coordinates, the barren landscape doesn’t give him much direction. He hugs the border for the duration of the drive.

He makes it to the old oil refinery. Its walls are pelted with bullet holes from warfare and the front door is blown off of its hinges. It’s the last remaining structure in this desolate area, and the marker for this particular patrol. He stops there to give his engines a break, taking refuge under the rickety roof it provides.

It’s then that something in the distance wafts over to him. It’s warbled and guttural, no more pleasant than the sound of the factory press. As he tunes his audio receptors, it mellows out into something more palatable. A song.

It’s nice enough sounding, but where is it coming from?

He looks over the grid but there’s nothing there. To say he can see more than a few feet of distance on the other side is generous at best. That being said, Decepticons tend to have a flair for the dramatics and their colours reflect that. It’s not hard to pick them out from a crowd; hence, if someone was actually there, he would see them.

He lingers by the edge, checking the perimeter to make sure there hasn’t been a breach. The field detects no tampering. He looks up, and the skies are empty. No seeker turbines pollute the air. No tire tracks exist on the ground. The area is vacant. He’s alone.

Maybe he’s just going crazy. Though the brush against his EM field begs to differ, he chooses to believe it’s just an error on his part.

Over the sound of his engine choking on dust, the song lingers. As he feeds distance between himself and the spot, it’s all he can think about. Like oil, the song transfers to everything he touches, and it’s there when his habsuite door shuts him inside. 

He starts hearing the song outside of his quarters at night, a serenade that never seems to end. It’s too driven to be a lullaby, and it doesn’t help him sleep so much as it keeps him in place; it fashions a pair of arms that hold him close and don’t let go.

He listens to the sound of himself vent over the ambient noises of processors whirring and flapping from outside. Recharge doesn’t come easily; he fights every impulse to roll over and slink the door, to go to the orange particle field that divides Autobot and Decepticon.

If he did go, would he be waiting there for Hot Rod?

Hot Rod doesn’t go anywhere without backup after his last stunt. Though he’s gained more responsibility related to the treaties, it’s not his growing importance that worries him.

Bumblebee is already gathering a group together for Windblade’s rescue and has taken on the crucial role of recruitment. He comes to Hot Rod twice, leaving with the same answer both times.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not because Hot Rod’s afraid. Of course, a part of him suspects that if he goes over there, he might not come back. It all comes down to wanting Optimus’ approval and being able to reassure himself that he’s done everything in his power to be loyal to him. The same doesn’t apply to Bumblebee, who’s just lucky that Hot Rod hasn’t blown the whistle on the whole operation. 

He can empathize though. If he wasn’t in such a precarious situation, he might be tempted to play along.

He also does it because he knows there’s one face in the Decepticon army that might not shoot him on sight. The line that separates enemy and friend has been blurred by their fight to save Cybertron, the most unfortunate of circumstances giving rise to something that isn’t quite Autobot or Decepticon. It haunts him now. 

Figures it would be coming from the Decepticons’ communications officer, who’s infamous for this type of sabotage. The looks he gets are so intense that they strip his paint. And those songs of his aren’t just catchy, they swell with emotion. It’s not like anything Hot Rod has ever experienced before.

Maybe he’s doing it because he knows he’s not allowed to speak to Hot Rod. So, he sings.

The songs begin to pick up in tempo. They climb higher and higher before dropping out, giving him no relief. He checks every surface inside of his room and runs internal diagnostics on his processor, hoping to find a bug or tracker that could be producing the sound. He fears what others might say when they hear it.

Strangely, he’s never heard noise complaints from those around him. Certainly nothing from high command, who would be obvious targets. There’s more than one use for technology that sneaks its way across the border; his thoughts jump to the activation of a dirty bomb or the use of mind control.

Is this mind control? It’s making him think things that would once make him revile in horror.

It’s a security threat is what it is, and he might’ve considered bringing it to Optimus had he not feared the outcome of being called insane. Or worse, traitorous for being the object of an enemy’s affections.

He comes back injured after a skirmish with the Decepticons. The ensuing fight twisted his leg joints backward, warping the metal and plating underneath and tying two energon lines together. The damages won’t cause any long-term harm but he’s no use to the chain of command while he recovers. So: he’s on medical leave for a few days.

He’s stretched out in berth, scrolling through reports when the sound picks up again. This time, the song choice is muted. It pulses low waves through his body, not relieving him of pain but padding his helm with empty thoughts that do nothing but weigh him down.

He holds onto the notes with shut optics and tries to block out the images of a blue frame curled around him, closing his vents until he burns up in an inferno. He doesn’t even register the pain in his leg anymore.

The songs never have lyrics, so he has no way of knowing what’s being said to him. His pursuer’s language is a lot more complicated than the choice in the music genre. He’s probably slaved over his choices, trying to send messages to Hot Rod that would be lost on most.

Hot Rod tries something else that evening, booting his systems down and turning away from the window. He pretends to be in recharge for as long as it takes for the music to die down. It's followed by the naked sound of wings flapping that cuts a hole deep inside of him.

It confirms some of his suspicions and opens others. Is Lazerbeak here for reconnaissance? Why play music when she could be recording him?

He briefly humours leaving a note of his own for Soundwave to pick up and find. He wouldn’t even need to say anything for it to be an answer. Then, he remembers that’s treacherous, and goes to recharge on an empty fuel tank.

Windblade’s rescue is successful and not once does he have to step foot on the Decepticon side of the border to make it possible. He’s part of the group that backs up Optimus, perched on top of the wall where he can safely aim at his opponents. There’s no chance of him being grabbed there, which is the biggest reassurance. 

Megatron and his lackeys make an appearance and share a few harsh words, though a quick survey of the landscape shows no Soundwave. Hot Rod swallows back the feelings that are much too reminiscent of disappointment down. He fills the void with relief. It’s not convincing, but he might just believe it if he keeps trying.

The Decepticons are angry with them, no doubt about that. He feels their beady optics on him as they walk the unconscious Windblade back to receive medical attention. There’s no doubt that the encounter will create more fights at the border, if not threaten to unravel the very delicate balance of peace.

The thought of it makes him put off recharge for as long as he can. Did they destroy something precious today? Is he going to be someone to blame?

What does Soundwave think?

His room is silent when he enters and remains silent as he unloads his belongings into a messy pile on the provided desk. He keeps looking at the window, rousing the fear inside of him to breed in the darkest corners of his subconscious.

When the music starts, it’s not the symphonic orchestra he’s used to. The guitar riff is distinctive and familiar. It takes him a second to place where he’s heard it before, and when it does all he can see are the colours red and black. He’s back in the training facility, sending teams in as a trust-building exercise that doubles as battle training. The music is loud and coming from behind, where a larger frame looms over. His voice sends vibrations up Hot Rod’s spinal strut, and he remembers fighting the urge to online his battle protocols out of blind trust. 

Soundwave had tried to kill Hot Rod once and could easily do it again, but at that moment there was a mutual understanding. They’d been targeted and prosecuted together, forging something that wasn’t quite a friendship. 

And Hot Rod had been sad to see it go, but that’s war. Optimus had gone through similar motions with Megatron, caught in the turmoil of longing for a person that’s been made unavailable by faction.

But then again, Optimus hasn’t had Megatron outside of his window every night. 

At least, he hopes not.

He can’t keep holding out like this, in this no-so-courtship that falls under no name. It’s a threat to his rank and allegiance to the Autobot cause.

He steps out to the window and takes a deep vent. 

“I know you’re out there, Soundwave,” he says. It’s moderate; he doesn’t scream nor whisper. “You can’t do this.” 

The song stops abruptly, right before the crescendo. He wonders, is it Lazerbeak or Soundwave that’s there? Is the familiar song supposed to draw pain, or bring back old feelings?

When it starts again, it’s only when Hot Rod has turned away from the window. This time, it’s a low hum. 

It’s the same thrum that he can hear pervading through the sound of explosives and metal on metal in the background.

Megatron and Optimus are locked in combat. Their gravitational pull to each other could bend space, and it might just be the death of them all. There won’t be anything left to call Cybertron if this keeps up. Hot Rod’s trying to salvage what’s left, swimming just to keep his head above water. 

Soundwave is nowhere to be seen, though his presence is made known. Where there should be backup, Hot Rod finds holes in the defence that he can drag fallen comrades through. He’s no one’s first target, and it’s as though he’s been earmarked for protection. 

The song is still there, though it’s long since become impossible to tell if Soundwave is playing it, or if it’s just stuck in his head. 

There are no lyrics, but the invitation is spoken loud and clear.

Soundwave’s paved the road, all he has to do is drive on it.

It’s hard, to pull away from his life and all that it offers him, to travel up the border. The orange light it emits covers every inch of his plating. It stains him; implicates what he’s about to do.

The song becomes louder, guiding his wheels when his internal compass goes awry. He’s lost control of his body as it dances to the pied piper. 

Soundwave is waiting for him on the Decepticon side, one finger pressed on the play button.

“Soundwave,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say after the fact.

“You looked better in black,” responds Soundwave. And then: “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated! I’m coming back to the fandom after many years spent away, so I'm eager to meet new people and make some new friends. ♥


End file.
